


the too white teeth all night

by mapped



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 3x01, Angst, Ear Piercings, Episode Related, M/M, Masturbation, Needles, Past Relationship(s), black sails mmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7282546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been a few months since Miranda's death and her face won't stop haunting Flint. Tonight, he tries to think of happier things for a change, but that doesn't lead him quite where he expects.</p><p>Set during 3x01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the too white teeth all night

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by [one of Elle's prompts on tumblr](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/post/144509666942/silverflint-mmom-prompts):
> 
> _Flint is missing and fantasizing about Thomas, when his treacherous mind suddenly supplies him with images of Silver. He tries to shake off these thoughts again and it just doesn’t work anymore and Flint gets angry._
> 
> Title from the poem 'Dirty Valentine' by Richard Siken.

You are tired of seeing her everywhere.

In light, in shadow, in dreams, in waking.

You lie in your cabin, exhausted, thinking of the woman you shot just hours ago, her ceaseless prayers, her shocked scream.

Every woman becomes her. Her blood on your face. Her eyes wide open.

_Her soul fleeing angrily to the shades._

Perhaps if you summon an image of her in happier times—

But happier times conceal their own thorns, ready for you to prick your mind upon and bleed. The truly happy times were long ago enough now that your recall of them is patchy at best, and that in itself distresses you, not knowing what is real and what your own imagination has conjured to fill the gaps. And later, well, happiness was all watered down, a diluted thing that barely retained the taste. Yet even to think of that pale imitation of happiness could be enough to break you in the state you are in now.

No matter. If you must break, so be it.

You close your eyes. There the two of you are, sitting on the porch. She has her hand against her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun as she reads from a book to you. You are drinking the last sips of tea that has gone cold.

Then you are thinking of her long hair, your fingers running through it as you lie next to her in bed.

And you hear her voice, saying, _Do you remember when Thomas and I—_

The two of you had done this together. Not often, but you did. She would whisper to you of the past and you would let her. You would mouth kisses into her neck and the memories would shroud you as a pall, enfolding you both as she murmured to you. You would touch yourself, and sometimes she would do the same.

You listen for a while to that voice as it spins its sweet melody in the dark. If you live long enough, eventually you will forget what that voice sounded like.

Tonight, it rings clear and true.

That voice allows you to think of elsewheres. A bed in London where for the first time you learnt to regard your illicit desires as something other than monstrous, where three bodies had the luxury to stay pressed together all night until morning found your slumbering selves still entangled.

She is telling you of Thomas’ fingers inside you, Thomas’ mouth around your cock, that time Thomas did this to you for what felt like nigh on an hour while you begged and pleaded for him to fuck you already—wasn’t his jaw _aching_? He admitted later that it was, quite, but it had been worth it to hear you whine.

You unbutton your trousers, slip a hand inside. You are half-hard with these thoughts, with this voice winding its way around you in the dark, almost tangible as a ribbon that would bind your limbs.

You stroke yourself, think of Thomas above you, finally entering you and drinking your moans with teasingly leisured kisses, of Thomas’ laughter when your hands brush over his ticklish sides in revenge, of Thomas’ eyes, blue—

 _blue_ —

A different set of eyes, another kind of blue: clearer, lighter, like a distant stretch of sunlit ocean coming into focus through a spyglass.

You grit your teeth. You did not expect _these_ thorns.

You are a fool who should have known better.

Once pricked, there is no stopping the bleeding. Not just those particular blue eyes, but that hair, the long brown curls of it, always tucked behind his ears now. The moustache and beard he’s grown on his face to mirror yours. The open necks of his shirts, dipping down in a V. Those hands, those fingers, the several glinting rings that have been adorning them of late.

It’s not as if you haven’t noticed. He’s beginning to dress the part, as you did when you first arrived on New Providence. And he seems to be picking up most of it from—you.

You imagine him saying, _I’d quite like an earring._ You’d offer to do it for him. He’d assent. A needle held over a candle flame; a cork taken from a bottle. Liquor poured on the least dirty rag you can find.

You’d stand close, rub the wet cloth over his earlobe. 

One hand behind his ear with the cork. _Hold still._ Steadily gazing into his blue eyes, forgetting what it is you’re supposed to be doing.

He licks his lips.

You press the needle in. He does not wince, but his breath quickens. You can hear it.

You take the needle out and follow smoothly with a silver stud, hands trembling only minutely. He looks at you, reflects you. His chest heaves. Your fingers draw a path from his earlobe down his neck, tracing over the string of his necklace that accents the low front of his dark shirt. His clavicle, his sternum, the hardness of bone under tanned skin. His pounding heart beneath your hand.

You kiss him, bitter, brutal. You do not want this. You do not want him here, but here he is. One moment you were thinking of short hair the colour of sand, buttons and layers, clean white shirtsleeves that billow like sails and a neck forever hidden by cravats. The next: this. 

Your fist in his dark locks, tugging. Your mouth on his neck, biting. Your hips flush with his, grinding. Rough, merciless. His stuttering moans, his hands clutching at your shirt. He calls you _Captain_ and says _fuck me_ like a dare. You are angry with him and you do not know why. You are always angry with him. Furious. He is a ship and you are the storm that wants to wreck him.

You would fuck him until he is ruined. You would bend him over your desk and drive into him and pull on his hair to make his back arch. You would ask him _why_ , why does he do this to you, why does he make you so angry, why does he feel like a mutiny you need to tame, why does talking to him feel as breathless as fighting and why does it always feel as if you’re _losing_ —

You would grip his waist while you fuck him, watch his fingers scrabble for purchase on the desk, listen to him goad you on to fuck him harder, faster, because he does not know when to shut up, because he’s trying to stay in control, but you won’t let him. Neither of you are in control of this, doesn’t he know that?

You do not want him but you do, you want his body to open up for you, you want to get inside of him like he is always, always inside you.

“James,” he says, and you squeeze your eyes shut and your hand tightens around your cock, and you want this, you want him, but you could not allow yourself to do any of this to him. Even if he wanted it as you do, even if he could somehow see past all the horror you have wrought with your hands and glimpse anything desirable in you, anything that would make him ask for you to touch him with these very hands.

And surely that is impossible.

It is _her_ voice that comes to you again. “James, _let go_ ,” she urges.

In your mind’s eye, he twists back for a kiss and you catch his mouth desperately. He sighs into it. You bite his lip—your own lip. Your thighs tense as you come, wishing your release was inside him rather than across your own stomach.

For a few moments you hold him there in your mind, pinned against your desk, one of your hands smoothing through his hair as you try and settle your breath.

Then you wipe yourself with yesterday’s shirt and cast it aside.

These days, there are only two people living in your head. You have not known how to think of anyone else for a while now.

Her face appears to you as it looked in death, that red, red hole in her head. Her features still and startled. Frozen.

His face is so often pale and etched with pain these days, even if he might think he is hiding it well—you suspect that he has been putting entirely too much strain on his leg. In sleep perhaps he might find a little relief and his features might soften and warm.

And so you fall asleep with a ghost on one side and an impossibility on the other, the sound of the sea lulling all to rest.

 

(The next day, you say to him, “In my head, you are not welcome.”

You are angry with him, and you know exactly why.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://reluming.tumblr.com/) and talk about these stupid pirates with me. Comments are much appreciated! <3


End file.
